"What is it?"
"Well—it's potery, if you must know. Leastways it's meant to be potery. I make it sometimes."
"Why?"
"To relieve my feelin's."
"'Pears to me your feelin's want a deal o' relievin', one way an' another. Read me some."
"You're sure you won't laugh?"
"Bless the man! 'Ow can I tell till I've 'eard it? Is it meant to be funny?"
"No."
"Well, then, I'm not likely to laugh. It don't come easy to me, any'ow:
I seen too many clowns."
She handed him the book. He chose a poem, conquered his diffidence, and began—